You’ll live, but I’ll not; perhaps

You’ll live, but I’ll not; perhaps

You’ll live, but I’ll not; perhaps,
The final turn is that.
Oh, how strongly grabs us
The secret plot of fate.

They differently shot us:
Each creature has its lot,
Each has its order, robust, —
A wolf is always shot.

In freedom, wolves are grown,
But deal with them is short:
In grass, in ice, in snow, —
A wolf is always shot.

Don’t cry, oh, friend my dear,
If, in the hot or cold,
From tracks of wolves, you’ll hear
My desperate recall.

Anna Akhmatova

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